At last ’tis gone, the fever of the day —
Thank God, there comes an end to everything;
Under the night cloud’s deepened shadowing,
The noises of the city drift away
Thro’ sultry streets and alleys, and the gray
Fogs ’round the great cathedral rise and cling.
I long and long, but no desire will bring
Against my face the keen wind salt with spray.
O, far away, green waves, your voices call ;
Your cool lips kiss the wild and weedy shore ;
And out upon the sea line sails are brown —
White sea birds, crying, hover — soft shades fall —
Deep waters dimple ’round the dripping oar,
And last rays light the little fishing town.
– Mary C. Gillington